Opening the Door
by HollyJeen
Summary: Response to the locked door forum challenge. This time, Hardcastle is standing at the door.


"You know . . . there's nothing as tempting as a locked door."

Muttering to himself, Milton C. Hardcastle stood in the drive, uncharacteristically hesitant. Staring at the gatehouse, he debated – for the hundredth time – whether he should just go ahead and knock, just to see what the kid was doing.

He refused to examine the reasons behind the hesitation, as well as those behind his need to see McCormick alive and well. Just a few short hours ago, the younger man had been knocked down by a stray bullet in the Lone Ranger's latest battle to right judicial wrongs. Hardcastle angrily shook his head to rid it of images of McCormick's falling body. He also refused to give in to the shudder that threatened when he remembered the resounding _thunk_ of his body striking the pavement.

Again, he studied the gatehouse door, longing to open it and peer inside. He was overwhelmed with the need to make sure that McCormick was alright. The unreasonable urge had grown over the last hour, and had finally driven the older man from his chair in the den. Hardcastle had developed a physical ache – an overpowering _need_ – to see the other man. He knew that he was simply reacting to the adrenaline of the hunt, and to the terror of seeing McCormick go down. However, recognizing the reason behind his fears did nothing to alleviate them. Now, with McCormick so close, yet hidden behind the locked door, the need to see him was stronger than ever.

"Geez," he muttered. "Get a grip, Milt. Stop overreacting," he commanded while still gazing at the gatehouse door. He took a few steps closer to the door, unable to withstand the pull of his own unacknowledged need. As he came within knocking distance, he sighed. Instead of knocking, Hardcastle leaned his head softly against the wood, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

"The kid's fine, you stupid old donkey," he admonished. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Even as he asked, though, he knew the answer. He and McCormick had begun their unusual partnership nearly six months ago, and the proceeding months had brought something to the juror he never expected. He had planned for this convicted felon to do what he was told, help out when he was needed, and to be held at arms-length when he wasn't.

What he_ got_, however, was the exact opposite. McCormick never did what he was told, and "helped out" whether the judge wanted him to or not. Although, the judge often wondered if the other man's version of "helping out" didn't create more problems than solutions! Further, he doubted whether the kid even knew what "arms-length" meant, for he had refused the judge's every effort to keep him there.

Instead of the business arrangement Hardcastle had planned, the most unexpected thing of all had happened – he and McCormick had become partners, a true Lone Ranger and Tonto, each watching the others' back in good times and bad. When the judge allowed himself to ponder this surprising development, he could only grin. While he would never tell McCormick, he was gladder than he could say that the younger man refused to fit into the mold Hardcastle had designed. The ex-con had brought an unexpected light to Gull's Way, and Hardcastle found himself enjoying the other's company profoundly. He got a kick out of the kid's smart mouth and fearless attitude, and loved having a verbal sparring partner up to the challenge of his own quick wit. His life had certainly changed for the better those six months ago.

Hardcastle shook himself back to the present when he realized that the reason for that change was now sleeping peacefully in the gatehouse, while he himself stood wearing his bathrobe in the driveway in the middle of the night. Grimacing, he turned away, preparing to return to the main house.

"You old fool," he muttered, angry at himself. "Get back inside before he sees you, and you hafta explain what the hell you're going out here!" But, even as he took a few quick steps back to the house, he still hesitated. The need to check on McCormick, to make sure he was alive and well after today's near-miss, was still powerful. Rolling his eyes at his own dramatics, Hardcastle finally gave in to the inevitable. He returned to the gatehouse door and, impatient with his own undefined need, reached for the knob. He intended to slip in, check on the younger man, and slip out. That way, McCormick would be none the wiser as to Hardcastle's actions.

Drawing the key out of his pocket, he was surprised when the door instead suddenly opened, revealing a disheveled Mark McCormick in its path.

"Judge?" the younger man asked, clearly surprised to see him. "What's wrong?" Scrubbing his face with both hands, McCormick stood aside and gestured for the other man to enter.

When the judge paused, McCormick squinted at him. "Judge, do you need something?"

Hardcastle looked at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. How could he admit to needing to make sure that McCormick was unhurt? He grimaced when he saw the small bandage on McCormick's arm, acknowledging the small reminder of the day's near-tragedy. Finally, he cleared his throat and glanced at the other man's face. "Nah, kid," he muttered. "I don't need anything. I was just… making sure everything was locked up for the night."

He glanced again at McCormick's face, making sure to paste his patented "Don't-ask-any-questions-unless-you-want-trouble" look on his own. After a small hesitation, McCormick nodded. "Everything's fine here, Judge. Really… I'm okay." This last was spoken so softly that Hardcastle almost didn't hear him. He looked sharply at McCormick, trying to determine his mood.

The younger man merely smiled, and bid the judge goodnight. As McCormick gently shut the gatehouse door, Hardcastle let out a small chuckle. He strolled slowly back to the main house, suddenly feeling much lighter than before. He had a strong suspicion that McCormick had known exactly what the judge was doing, but hadn't given him a hard time. That was, in Hardcastle's opinion, one of McCormick's best traits – he knew when to push, but he also knew when to let things go.

As he locked and double-checked his own door, he stole one more quick glimpse at the gatehouse. "Yeah, kid," he whispered fondly. "You're _definitely_ okay." With that, he turned off the last light and headed upstairs to bed.


End file.
